


Baby, You've Got Me Tied Down.

by Jonaira



Category: One Direction (Band), Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Beds, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Crack, Christmas Fluff, Comedy, Comedy RPF, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Harry Potter References, Humor, Los Angeles, M/M, RPF, Recording Studios, Sassy Harry, Sassy Nico, Winter, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonaira/pseuds/Jonaira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Harry Styles just wants to record and comes across D.O.A Recording Studios. And then he meets Nico and they kick ass together. Fluffy one(direction)-shot</p><p>Or, the love child of two mega super-duper fandoms, PJO and 1D.</p><p>Also: First and so far, only work in this pairing :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, You've Got Me Tied Down.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a light-hearted original work of fiction and I do not intend to imply anything or cast aspersions on the characters of the non-fictional entities mentioned. No profit is being made on this work.

Harry kicks a can out of his way; it hits the dingy wall of the alley with a satisfying clang. He sighs and his breath mists in the cold evening air of Los Angeles. He’s alone for once, the others boys all home for Christmas already, but after Louis’ strop on Chatty Man, he’s found himself in L.A as part of management’s ploy to divert attention from that instance ( _Well, here’s to trying_ , he thinks. It’s not like he’s got anywhere special to be, Gemma’s only back home on the twentieth anyway, Mum and Robin are out on holiday; he’s so done with coming back to cold rooms and empty houses and Louis- Louis’ got too much of his own going on right now and a little space would be nice. Or so he tries to convince himself) by getting him papped with some up-and-coming starlet. The photos are bound to hit the internet after getting ‘leaked’ accidentally (he still can’t help snorting at the accidental leaking of photos after all this time. Honestly, give people a break for Christmas at least, even he’s sick of news about himself) within a couple of days. Some scruffy looking kid passes him near the end of the alley and does a double take. He keeps his head down and just walks faster with his hands tucked in his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket with the hood pulled up, wrap-around shades firmly on his nose and curls under a beanie. He’s had enough of recognition for today.

He’s supposed to be flying out tomorrow evening, but he’s already packed and itching to get home. Or just itching in general; he feels like ants are crawling under his skin, something buzzed. That feeling when you’re torn between lolling in bed all day and wanting to hit the gym and run miles and pump iron until your fingers tremble but can’t tell which is which. And he’s got no idea what’s got him so hopped. He’s just read something about Zayn this afternoon and it’s got him thinking about what the lad is upto, if he’d be willing to skype over break, or whether he’d rather not want to catch up with Harry, his reasons for leaving, the impending hiatus come March , the way they all need a bloody break, just space to _breathe_ without each inhale being over-analysed and dissected like they’re some unfortunate amphibian and-He stops dead there on the side walk. Forces his mind blank. Breathes in deep and huffs on the exhale. 

This is why he had to get out. Thoughts playing ridiculous games of tag, knocking around the inside of his skull like little footballs, Louis chasing after them, will he even play indoors now what with the baby and- he cuts his thoughts off deliberately once more. Grits his teeth and continues striding, he’s not dressed all that warmly and he needs to keep moving to keep the chill at bay. 

And then he sees it, like a sneaky Christmas miracle of some kind.

DOA Recording Studios. (NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING) Harry pushes open the doors and walks, no, floats in like a Disney princess dream. Bits and pieces of a melody, half formed riffs have been dancing through his head for days now, and until he’s actually faced with a studio, it hasn’t occurred to him that he wants to record, just parts and bridges of a song. He doesn’t have words yet, but it’s the kind of piece that writes itself. 

Something about perfect yet sudden beginnings and uncertain ends, too much that’s been spoken but which still is not enough and little that’s been actually said but which still is too much. He just wants to sing about everything that’s been happening too fast and yet not fast enough, he wants to sing until his throat is raw and he can’t carol for shit, belt out lyrics until his throat is raw and only mum’s eggnog with plenty of alcohol (and even more brandy slipped in with a wink from Robin when her back is turned) can fix. He just needs a booth and one hour. And this place snuck up on him (plus he likes their sense of humour, even if it’s a bit twisted) with the kind of respite he didn’t even know he needed and its kismet or karma or something. Whatever. He hopes he can get in on such ridiculously short notice, maybe the fact that’s it’s the holidays might mean they can squeeze him in. He pointedly ignores the bit of his head that (un)helpfully pipes up that this is _L.A_ , and even a relatively non-descript and extremely non-centrally located place might be booked for weeks in advance. He nervously feels for his wallet as he walks to the long black marble reception desk. It’s a bit like stepping into a black and white film, with the grey-black and white colour scheme. A lone pencil cactus stretches its spindly arms in the corner, doubling up as the Christmas tree apparently if he’s to judge by the weird white ornaments swaying limply in the arctic blasts of the air conditioners (its colder inside than outside and there’s a sudden leaden feeling in his gut that he can’t explain) , the top gleaming with a brassy and oddly shaped star.

Except, it’s not a star, it’s a miniature Greek-style helmet, and those aren’t ornaments so much as greek alphabets, he realises as he squints and recognizes the swaying characters from science classes back in school. And they look crazily enough as if they’re made of _bone_ , bleached white and dry. The sound of somebody clearing their throat behind makes him straighten up with a jerk from his crouch to gawk at the tree and suddenly he realises that what had seemed like a mostly full lobby, with listless people waiting on the black couches is starkly and eerily empty all of a sudden. And he isn’t so sure if there actually were people in here to start out with even, the way they didn’t seem really substantial, like a holographic image from the corner of his eye, he can’t remember really well...

Once again he’s pulled out from his spaced out speculations by a crisp deep voice clearing its throat and smoothly saying, “Read the sign didn’t you mate, no loitering and no living.” in a very pronounced London accent. He can’t help but grin at the fit looking chap behind the desk, paisley suit, ear-piece and bleached blonde hair all at odds with the usual type Harry’s come to expect to be manning a counter. Always good to be reminded of home, nevertheless. 

Harry bounces upto the counter, mood loads better. “Sorry ‘bout the loitering, although I’m not doing too great a job of living really. I mean, here I am trying to get in some last moment productivity when all the funs in lazing around back home.” He smiles.

The bloke, _Charon_ his name tag reads, arches a brow and quirks a corner of his mouth. Harry’s unsettled by the fact that this guy is wearing shades indoors, in the evening. Maybe he’s got a black-eye, or he’s a bit hung-over (hard pushed to be, but hey, he’s seen it before). His next words indicate that he simply might be a bit of a tosser though, the kind who wears his sunglasses at midnight.

“Brilliant. Just lovely. A funny one. Quite enough with the chitchat there boy, no matter how pretty you are, unless you’ve got the fare , you shall not pass.”

Harry blinks, a little shocked at his rudeness.

“Gandalf reference there. Er, I do fully intend to pay right now, by cash or card since I know this is on really short notice and I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I just need about an hour really-”

The guy leans forward and cuts him off. “An hour ? Mate, I hate to break it to you but it’s the rest of your pitiful existence we’re talking about here. And who in Hades is Gandalf ?” 

Harry can feel a throb start up in his temples and his eye twitches a bit. He forces himself to unclench his teeth.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could keep it professional and refrain from the personal slights there Mr. Charon. I’d completely understand if all the booths are booked right now, but I’m willing to wait a for few hours at very least and until you close at most, and I really don’t think that should be a problem worth insulting me for.” 

The guy steeples his fingers together and leans forward, head atilt.

“Kid. What the blazes are you on about ?”

Harry gives in to he urge to pop his knuckles. “A recording booth, to record a song. Like what your sign outside proclaims. This _is_ a recording studio isn’t it ?” he bites out, terse and barely reigning in his frustration. “If this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t very funny, yeah?”

Suddenly, Charon (maybe he got teased a lot in school with a name like that, it would explain why he’s being and unhelpful douche anyway) gets up and actually leans over the desk and then to Harry’s intense surprise _sniffs_ him. Two long pulls, like a wolf scenting the air. And the new tone his voice takes on makes the wolf comparison ridiculously accurate.

“You aren’t dead, godling. Plus, you’re one of those Britlings.”

Harry stumbles a step back, an aura of danger radiation off the man now. “I’d- I’d like to think not, no. Er, Britling maybe, we actually call ourselves One Direction if you want to look us up, _godling_ is a bit _too_ kind though, thanks all the same.”

The guy kind of gapes at him, like he can’t believe this interaction just happened/is happening. Neither can Harry for that matter. Harry sees him discreetly press a button under his desk. Great. Because that exactly what he needed, to be escorted out of some hole-in-the-wall recording studio by security, dressed like a decidedly dodgy ninja, just before Christmas. He doesn’t even try to imagine the headlines, although at least this will definitely pull attention away from Louis chucking his phone across Alan Carr’s studio.

“Let me get this straight. You want to record what I presume is a song in a sound booth and you’re willing to pay cash up front, but you aren’t inquiring about the boat to Hades.”

“Yes. No boats, I get sea sick eventually.”

“And you’re not dead. Or on a quest. Are you ?”

“ _No, I’m not dead_ , and sorry, but what exactly is a quest ? Not the dictionary meaning thankyou .”

“All right then, no quest it is. You’d better not be lying kid, the last time I let two demigods and a satyr get past, the boss cut my pay so badly I didn’t see a fibre of Italian suits for seven years straight and I’ve just stated to be able to afford them again !” His nostrils flare at the end and he grips the edge of the counter hard enough that his knuckles whiten.

Harry takes a deliberate step back again. He’d take fans camping in dustbins and showers any day, heck, _every_ day, over this. Ah, nostalgia. 

“That’s terrible I’m sure, but you’re making no sense whatsoever right now.” He says firmly.

“You can make your payment and take a seat now.” Charon tells him abrupt and sweet, the sudden saccharine interaction giving Harry whiplash. 

He hesitates for a second (all of a sudden, he thinks that maybe he isn’t the dodgiest one around here after all) before pulling our his wallet, mouth open to ask if he’ll have to wait long, when a sharp “That won’t be necessary.” rings out from somewhere on his left side.

He catches Charon’s deep scowl and muttered ,“I was expecting Alecto, _master_.” The last word positively spat, with such venom that Harry checks the sad little Christmas cactus to see if it hasn’t wilted. And then he stiffens sharp and tense when he sees Zayn walking towards him.

But it’s not Zayn. Just his dark eyes and chiselled features, the honey tone of his skin stalking towards them on scuffed trainers, clad in a flapping bomber jacket. For one thing, this boy is most definitely a _boy_ , not more than fifteen at most even though his gangly, coltish limbs seem packed with wiry muscle, and Zayn would never be caught dead in public with a shock of hair as messy as this guy’s. He reaches them then, and up close under the harsh lighting of the lobby Harry notices that even though the boy is naturally olive-skinned, he has an unhealthily pale undertone, like he doesn’t spend much time outside in the sun. The fading purple arcs under his eyes only add to his general air of ruffled fatigue, but when he interacts with Charon, he’s brisk and firm, sharp even. Harry can’t say he feels too bad about that, this boy obviously has some authority over the obnoxious receptionist; and it doesn’t seem like the first time Charon’s been pulled up.

“I hope he’s not been giving you too much grief,” the boy says, giving Harry a quick glance, polite but clearly with more intent focussed on getting back to making Charon uncomfortable. He peers intently at Charon, eyes narrowed, “because if it’s about Italian suits again, father’s asked me to pass on the message that maybe you’d start trawling thrift shops for your clothing purchases, or, I quote, ‘Holla in at the Dolla’ store.’ ” 

Charon’s scowl now looks like it has been carved in stone on his face. “I thought Alecto would be coming up ?” he questions, teeth buzzing as he grits out his words.

The boy waves an airy hand. “I was already on my way up when father told me to stop over by the front entrance. Also, Alecto says that if it’s about the suits again, she’s going to give them to Gabe Ugliano down at punishment and then see how you get the cheese fondue out of them. The dry cleaner’s bill isn’t worth it if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you.” He practically growls.

“Good, I try not to answer stupid questions on principle anyway. Glad we’ve got that out there then.”

“ _And keep the shades on_ !” he adds sharply, just as Charons’ fingers have gripped the corner of his tortoise-shell glares as if about to whip them off, glare burning through anyway and pinned on Harry. Charon seems to deflate, hand dropping to wherever it goes when not steepled creepily with its twin and he mutters a string of words that are complete greek to Harry, although he catches something about _entitled brats_ (although that could simply be _pickled cats_ , and he thinks of Dusty and feels a pang of longing for home, so close yet so far sort of)He shudders involuntarily as the force of Charon’s shade-covered gaze moves off him and then realises that the boy has gently placed his palm on Harry’s forearm, initiating him turning away from the unpleasant and bewildering receptionist. 

“I’m real sorry about that. Unfortunately, I can’t legitimately say that he isn’t always like that. He’s usually worse, manages to actually get away with getting the poor suckers to pay extra. Oh, I’m Nico by the way.” The boy, _Nico_ , sticks out his hand for a shake and Harry’s a beat late to take it (there’s a slight callus on his thumb, like he plays the guitar ), too absorbed in cataloguing the stark change in his countenance, from haughty and regal even, while dealing with Charon (like some kind of prince- see _this_ is why he just needs to purge all those extra pent-up artsy bends of expression flapping around in him with that song) to wide-eyed and some interesting mix of exasperated and earnest now.

“Big fan, too. Directioner and proud. Never thought I’d actually ever get to meet one of you boys. ” He flashes even, white teeth in a huge grin then, and with his eyes crinkles, bright smile, and puppy- brown eyes he reminds Harry simultaneously of Louis, Niall and Liam. It makes Harry instantly take a shine to him.

Harry beams in return and claps him on the back. “Thanks mate, that’s really nice of you to say. Although I was wondering if you could tell me what’s going exactly ? Like, er, in what capacity are you here because obviously you’re someone important and I just want a booth for an hour, less than even, if its squeezing between schedules. I’ll pay cash upfront.” He’s aware that he’s pouting away right now but he carries on regardless.

“I tried explaining that to our buddy there, but he was really rude about the whole thing and generally asked me the weirdest questions I’ve ever been asked. Y’know, and here I thought I’d heard them all.” He tries to joke.

Nico continues smiling, but his eyes tighten and it looks more forced now.

“The first one’s easy. My dad kinda owns the place, so you’ve got me as the entitled rich brat who throws his weight around on the poor employees who’ve been around so long that even though dad wants them fired,” he pointedly shoots a look over his shoulder back at Charon who in a vacant sort of way does a great terminator impression, “even more than I do, he really doesn’t have anybody else to hire. They’re sort of like, a package deal with the place.”

He looks sincere enough when his features shift to something more regretful.

“Listen Harry, can I call you Harry? ” He barrels on without waiting for his amused nod, “it’s an honour and everything that you picked an independent, family run studio like ours, but we’re undergoing maintenance right now, and the working booths are all booked out and in use currently. I hope it wasn’t anything pressing.”

They’ve already reached the doors and Nico has pushed them open and sort of ushered Harry out even before Harry can try desperately once again saying he’s got a thumb drive on him and that he needs just half-an-hour , nothing more.

But then he’s out in the cold of the evening that’s actually warmer than the freezing inside of DOA and Nico is apologizing once more. 

“You could always try the main street, I’m sure they’d be tripping over themselves to fit you in.” Harry nods crestfallen and a bit numb. He even forgets to ask Nico not to tell anybody from the press in general about him dropping in to record separate from the boys and from the label itself.

And then Nico is abruptly deathly serious, his fingers closing around Harry’s wrist and squeezing once. A cold gust of wind ruffles the boy’s hair, fanning the faint scent of leather , a curious metallic tang like that of iron and oddly enough, bubble bath , towards him.

“Do me a favour though, please ? Don’t walk any further down this sideway, just turn onto the main road right from this side okay ? Please.”

And the look on his young face is so grave that Harry just nods on autopilot and pats the hand still closed around his wrist. He doesn’t need to mention that its quicker to do just what Nico has so clearly begged him not to do, so that he can get back to the hotel and flop the bed and wallow in the wave of flash disappointment churning in him now.

Still though, he wishes Nico a good evening and he tucks his cold fingers back into his pockets as he steps off the DOA premises, turning towards the main road in accordance with Nico’s instructions anyway, feeling his gaze heavy and prickling on his back. He hears the faint click of the doors swinging shut.

Just as get gets to the mouth of the sidestreet he hears a shout of “Smile Harry !” and a shrill voice cries, “Ohmigod, it _is_ him !” before a flash goes off somewhere to his right. He _can’t_ do this right now, just _cannot_ , he thinks, and lizard brain kicking in he turns on a dime, boots squeaking and strides off back down the way he came, hoping to lose whoever it is if he keeps to the twisting shadows of the street that doesn’t have any lights of its own. He hurries across the white glow from DOA spilling onto the pavement, and sees the long shadow of whoever it is thats following him flicker near his feet and only walks faster, chilly air sharp in his nose. There’s a mellow glow up ahead, the only other shop on this deserted road and though he can’t make out the neon sign from his angle, he really doesn’t care if it sells anything from electronics to eels. It could be a damn strip club and he’d duck in just to shake off the idiotic bloke puffing away in pursuit. Harry smiles tightly; serves him right. 

And then he’s in the inviting puddle of light and through the doors and into the shop of...mattresses. Well, waterbeds to be specific. It’s a lot bigger than it looks on the outside and Harry’s been to his share of lifestyle stores for sure, he’s been in one of the biggest IKEA’s ever but never has he seen so many mattresses and beds together in one place. The sheer size of the room is only emphasized by the fact that he’s the only potential customer in the entire shop, it being completely empty. Every size seems to be present in two shades more than that in a rainbow, psychedelic sets with lava lamps built into the headboard, what looks like a steam-punk themed one, this one model that declares a million hand massage and one that promises dynamic stabilizers with no wave motion (Even for big guys!). There’s even this heart shaped monstrosity in the corner, and Harry jumps a clear foot when he realises that there are two bikini clad women lounging on the bed, a sign proclaiming ‘Because a Threesome is Awesome ! ’ taped to the headboard. One of them waves to him, and on reflex he checks behind himself, looking over his shoulder. The other giggles and blows him a kiss. Harry swallows and waves back feebly. And for the second time that night he finds hiself having drifted into a lounge without realising it. He finds himself drawn to a Christmas themed model, which is shaped like a giant gingerbread man. It seems to be about six feet totally, and the white edging on the caramel sheets reminds him swiftly of the chalk outlines to mark out where a dead body has fallen. He suppresses a shudder at the morbid direction his thoughts have taken. And then shivers violently anyway when a heavy hand (paw ?) smacks down onto his shoulder and a rumbling deep voice coos, “Well, well, now how do we feel about old Gingy here ?”

He blurts out, “Weird.” And then flushes and stammers, “Sorry, no offence intended there. Just reminds me a bit of a crime scene a bit. Gottta cut back on watching all that Castle, I suppose.” He chuckles weakly and tries to sneak a discreet glance at the nametag but has to look again not-so-discretely, because all its says is _Stretche_. Maybe he’s French ?

Stretche simply smiles enigmatically and strokes his leathery chin, and murmurs “Interesting comparison”. He giggles low and hoarse, the overhead lights gleaming off his bald head that rivals the full moon in luminescence. 

The huge guy (he’s huger than Bressie even) reminds him of Jurassic Park, the original one, for some reason. Maybe it’s because he’s expecting pointy yellow teeth to flash when the chap smiles in a manner slicker than an oil spill at him (they aren’t pointy, but he sure should demand a refund on his dental programme, Harry notes). Or the way his green leather jacket simply makes him look like a bipedal grey crocodile wearing another crocodile’s skin. He sort of expects Chris Pratt to jump out from behind a bed and try to go all Alpha-Beta dino tamer on the salesman. 

“I’m Harry, and you’ve got an interesting name, Mr. Stretche. Am I saying that right ?” he says and puts his hand out for a shake. Stretche takes his proffered hand in his huge grip, rough palmed, and squeezes hard enough that Harry feels his carpal bones grind against each other ; he suppresses a grimace.

“It’s actually Procrustes. I went by just Crusty for a while, but a customer had a, ah, _violent_ reaction to that name, so now I‘m just Stretche.” Crusty/Stretche purrs.

“Please feel free to browse, take a nap, anything. Tammi and Kelli over there would be more than happy to show you around. Business ain’t all that great today.” He says in a generous sort of way, gesturing widely around the odd shop. The end of his sentence is punctuated by twin giggles from the scantily clad girls and Harry refuses to look that way as he feels his cheeks heat up again.

Harry pulls out his phone to check the time, but the screen remains blank. Wrinkling his nose at the dead battery he looks around for a wall clock and is shocked to see that it’s been three hours since he first entered DOA, when it couldn’t have been, _shouldn’t_ have been more than 40 minutes from then to now. 

“Ah, actually Mr. Stretche, I’m running awfully late and I really need to dash. Thanks for the offer though, and I’m really sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ll be leaving now.”

“But our prices our extremely competitive !”

“I’m sure they are but-”

“Always good to have that extra fancy waterbed for when that special someone comes calling, eh ?” he waggles his non-existent eyebrows ridiculously.

“In that case, I really have no need for one because I’m sing-oof” he’s cut short when Stretche thwaps one huge fleshy palm onto his back and steers him towards Gingy. 

“At least _try_ it out, Harry dear boy, it’s the least you could do after barging in with no appointment,” he says as he manhandles Harry towards the creepy gingerbread-bed.

“I thought you said business was slow,” Harry mutters, Stretche calling him _dear boy_ reminding him forcefully of Cornelius Fudge and the way nothing good seems to happen after all his meeting s with Harry Potter . He warily sits down on the edge of the crime-scene mock up anyway, trying to get this over and done with as painlessly as possible. It’s been a weird, _weird_ day, and he just wants his plain old bleach scented hotel bed, and not some strange waterbed sold to him by an even stranger man. 

Stretche simply shoves him down with one push of his shoulders and Harry has the breath knocked out of him (although hey, it’s true, no waves at all). _What_ is it with random guys and extreme rudeness today !?

He’s just opened his mouth to give Stretche a piece of his extremely snarky mind when the guy snaps his fingers and barks out a sharp “Ergo !”

Tight ropes spring out and seemingly magically coil over Harry, chest, thighs and ankles strapped firmly to the ginger-bed, spread-eagled so he fits over the murder-outline perfectly.

“Okay, okay ! I’m _really_ , really not into this kind of thing ! No BDSM fetish here, sorry. And how the bloody hell did you even get the ties to do that ? I think I’m not getting to the point here though, so let me up right now and I won’t press charges, mate.” His throat is so dry he can barely get the words out, and his heat is thumping faster than Josh Devine can drum on his best day.

Stretche flashes his dentist-demotivator smile. He looks around for Kelli and Tammi, because surely this isn’t normal right ? He’s not walked right into the lair of Just Your Friendly Neighbourhood Serial Killer has he ? Comparisons to The Beatles are always flattering but he really doesn't want to pull a John Lennon. They seem completely unaffected when he shoots them a panicked look.

Stretche laughs, cold and hope-slaying. “Oh, the girls are just here for the fun. And the feast. You look tasty, all right. They’ve even worn their special meal clothes see. Getting blood stains out of fabric is so tedious you know. ” Promptly enough they hop off the bed and sashay towards Harry.

He nearly throws up but the angle is all wrong, and Harry manages to swallow back the bile before he chokes himself. 

Harry had never given much thought to how he would die. But dying in the place of somebody he loved, seemed like a good way to go.

Wait. 

This is not Twilight, and he sure as fuck is _not_ Bella. 

He refuses to die sounding like Bella Swan. He has _standards._

Plus there is nobody he cares about being held hostage, _thank heavens._

And then it grips him cold and jarring, that this is it, I’m going to die cannibalized on a Christmas themed crime scene. He wishes fiercely that he could just kiss Mum and Gemma goodbye and hug Robin and the boys one last time.

Except, he sees a shock of wild black hair pop-up from behind a bed in one of the more shadowy corners of the showroom. Nico’s face follows, and he emerges, holding a broad ebony stick like a bat, except it’s not a stick, but a gleaming sword, dark as night and a hundred times more unsettling. “Keep him talking.” Nico mouths to Harry. And then he melts back into the shadows, literally _melts into them_ and appears back in the shadow of a bed right behind Kelli and Tammi. Harry decides that maybe, his mind has finally snapped with all the stress of the last five years, and if they’re going to lock him up in the nut-house anyway, he might as well get his money’s worth while he’s still out and free. So he keeps talking even as he sees Nico swing his swords clean through the two blood-thirsty women in one go and manages not to stutter when instead of the arc of crimson he expects, they silently explode like the worlds’ grossest piñata, without a screech at all, covering Nico in the dust.

His voice cracks as he babbles on to Stretche.

“Ah, I understand that organic food is a big deal, I mean I’m a big fan myself , and I totally agree with knowing exactly where you food comes from or even better, _growing_ your own food, but I must emphasize that consumption of the human brain may pass on a prion and give you Creudsfeld-Jacob disease, better known as Mad Cow.”

Stretche actually cocks his head and looks thoughtful, mouth half-open as if to ask Harry how does he know this. Even Nico shoots him a quizzical look from halfway across the room like ‘Really, mate ?’.

“I have a lot of free time on the plane. And there are only so many movies one can watch after a while, although the current world record for watching movies is a hundred and twenty one hours and eighteen minutes straight, no sleeping.” He addresses them both.

Turns out, word-vomit is an actual thing that happens to him. The learning just never stops does it ?

Stretche decides to ignore the last minute of Harry trying to motor-mouth his way out of trouble. He pats Harry’s arm, making his skin crawl when his touch lingers.

“Actually, I’m giving you a makeover, Harry. It’s always good to keep shaking up your image, re-inventing yourself, no?” 

“I already have a stylist, thanks.”

“Oh, but what I have in mind for you is actually more than just skin-deep,” he chuckles. “More like spine-deep.”

Harry feels icicles down his back-bone, as he remembers an old story from a library book he read as a child. “You said your name is Procrustes didn’t you ? Like the greek giant. The...Stretcher. _Stretche_.”

“The one and only !” Stretche beams. “I’m so glad to find a smart one finally!”

“So you’re going to stretch me ? I’ll just stick with yoga, cheers.” Harry squeaks.

“Oh just a tiny bit, you’re quite tall as it is. I usually prefer kids you see, none of that Ovaltine rubbish required when their wee spines add an extra eight centimetres in just as many minutes. I love uniformity, and everyone needs to be exactly six feet tall after they visit my humble abode.” 

And for the first time since stepping into the shop, Harry feels white-hot rage and no other emotion sear his insides. 

“You do this to kids, you psycho ?”

“But they’re the most fun ! The last couple of kids tricked me though, and sent me on a long vacation to Tartarus. I just got back, actually and you’re my first welcome-back customer ! Infact, I’ll even waive service charges.” Stretche says generously.

“Oh and Son of Hades, you might want to work on your stealth there. You’re about as quiet as an empousai at a buffet.

And I saw you get the girls, Son of Hades, but then, it’s more of the two of you for me to eat without having to share with those gluts. Those horrible she-devils. No diet restrictions at all, those empousai.” He grumbles.

And turns around to back-hand Nico viciously, except the boy is ready and ducks the blow, rolling away. He and Stretche face off over Harry, awkwardly sprawled in the middle.

“Going by a new name now are we Crusty ? The first had a better ring to it, if you ask me.”

Crusty/Stretche frowns. “Have we met before ? You’re much too short.”

Nico scowls. “You tried to kill a friend of mine, except he outsmarted you.”

Stretche howls at that. “Posiedon’s brat ! I knew this one here,’ he gestures wildly to Harry “reminded me of Somebody that I Used to Know !”

Harry sings the next line and both Stretche and Nico goggle down at him. “What ? Oh, don’t mind me, I’ll just be the live entertainment while you two catch up, yeah ?”

Nico glares at him.“Not only do you look like Percy, you even act like him too. He doesn’t listen to me either and gets his ass in the fire.”

“Well then I’m sure he’s got a perfectly lovely arse, if mine’s anything to go by.” Harry sniffs.

“Yes he _does_.” Nico grumbles. And then cuts Harry’s bonds, whirling away to face the gaint who is now hefting a huge double-bladed brass axe.

Nico ducks right into Stretches’ space, and Harry watches transfixed and terrified as Nico weaves and ducks the blows, never parrying a direct hit from the huge axe, instead leading the giant towards a bed. He manages to get the giant’s back to face the bed and Harry understands Nico’s plan a split-second before their gazes lock and Nico mouths ‘ _now’._

Harry drops to the ground and slides into narrow space between the bed stand and Stretches’ feet and then kicks at his ankles from behind, so that the monster knocked off=balance topples backwards over Harry and onto the bed, axe falling and embedding itself in the carpet with its other blade quivering right between his legs. Nico snaps his fingers and wheezes “Ergo” before the giant can recover, and the ropes lash him down firmly.

They both catch their breath, Nico panting from the fight, and Harry from the adrenaline that’s left his stomach hollow.

Eventually though, Harry tells him sagely, “You’re an insult to salesmen world over, mate. Might probably want to switch streams.”

“Nooo! I‘m the best there is ! Plus it’s too late to ask for a refund from Monster Marketing Solutions for all those DVDs I bought back in ’69.”

Harry and Nico exchange a look. 

“Like, Bryan Adams ’69 ? Nineteen sixty nine ? Cause I don’t think they had DVD’s back then.”

“What ? Of course not, _eighteen_ sixty nine, at the Monstrous Monster Convention, New York city ! I could always sell the set-plus-bonus features to you at 80 % the price I bought it for !”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“50 % off !”

“Cheerio, Stretche.”

“I’ll even throw in Medusa’s yoga videos for rock-hard abs (side effects include indigestion and permanent to semi-permanent calcification of the abdomen) totally free !”

Nico offers the jet-black sword he had used to slay Tammi and Kelli with to Harry.

“Care to do the honours ? Usually only a child of the Underworld can wield a Stygian Iron weapon, but I think my sword likes you.” Nico finishes with a slightly amused smile, holding out the blade hilt-first to Harry.

“That made no sense to me, but I’ll take it in the intended spirit. Ta, mate.” 

The blade rests ice-cold and heavy in his hand, the balance like that of a cricket bat. He takes his swing and Stretche stops listing side effects.

Harry sneezes in the swirling spirals of Dusty-Crusty left behind. 

“Does this always happen ?” he asks Nico, waving the dust away from his face as he hands the sword back gladly. Liking him or not, it doesn’t feel friendly for long, he notes.

“Oh yeah, sure. Sometimes there’s more Eau de Sulphur, and I think they have to pay extra for the Eerie-Echoing-Final-Wail-of-Death, but the gut-confetti is a regular feature.” Harry can’t tell if Nico is serious of joking.

~~~

Harry is freezing his bollocks off in the lobby of DOA studios. It’s nearing midnight, no crazy-eyes Charon around, just Nico, Harry and the sad little cactus tree. 

Somebody has added a tiny Santa hat to the brass helmet on the top. It’s the only splotch of colour in the whole room and his eye keeps getting drawn to it. Anything to distract him from actually believing everything Nico has just told him.

Nico explains how time moves differently in monstrous or divine locations, which is why harry’s watch was hours ahead.

Nico had led him back to DOA, telling him not to worry once Harry realised that they had effectively commited murder back there. “It’s sort of our job description, heroes kill monsters. They just come back. My friend Percy was the last one to kill Crusty back there and I’ve been keeping an eye on the place to check if he was reborn. Ugh. Chiron explains the archetypes theory much better than I do.”

“Where do I fit into all of this ?” Harry had asked.

Nico smiled then, a kind of inside joke smirk. “You’re a lot more closely connected with it all than you think Harry Styles. You’re special.”

“Is that a euphemism for calling me insane ? Because I’d probably agree with you. All this can’t be real.”

“Well it is. I’m dead serious, and that means a lot coming from the son of the god of the dead. You’re special.”

“How ?”

“Yer a wizard, Harreh.” Nico had deadpanned and then started cackling so hard he fell off the couch and onto the floor. He came up for air only to gasp out ,“I’ve always wanted to do that !” and then rolled around some more. Harry waited patiently (this was an old joke now for him, but never had it occurred in quite these circumstances.)

When he’d hiccoughed his way back to a straight face, Nico explained how the greek gods were around and still busy having kids. He’d explained how he was a son of Hades, for example, but before Nico could get much further Harry had to cut in.

“Hades, like the bald bloke with the pointy smile and fire on his head in Hercules ? Wouldn’t he burn down the bed ? Ah sorry, that was insensitive.” He cringes.

Nico rolls his eyes. “You’d probably agree with me that no publicity is bad publicity except murder, but it’s just that so many people know of dad better because of the movie, even though they got _everything_ wrong. But dad swears that Walt Disney’s really lucky was already in Elysium because otherwise dad specially designed a corner in the fields of Punishment for him after that movie.”

Harry shudders delicately.“Lets please not talk about Punishment right now, because all I can imagine is this stadium full of beds with those sentient ropes and Stretche with a riding crop.” Nico dry heaves.

Once the queasiness passes Harry gets back to his question.“But, I still don’t get how this has anything to do with _me_. Maybe I’m just one of those mortals that can see through the mist.”

Nico gives one of his enigmatic smiles again and retrieves what looks like a whiskey flask from inside his jacket. He pours a bit of the golden liquid inside into the cap and carefully deposits a drop onto Harry’s wrist, where the ropes had bit in and left red welts.

“Don’t want anybody asking questions about those,” Nico smirks, and to Harry’s intense surprise, the hot skin there cools and immediately the inflammation goes down, leaving behind a pleasantly tingly feeling. Nico gives him another drop to taste, and recoils when it tastes like the best eggnog his Mum’s ever made .

“That’s nectar. Mortals would combust on ingesting it. You’re a demigod, Harry, the fact that it just healed you and tasted like what you miss the most from home is proof of that. Although here’s the interesting thing, and it’s just a theory. I don’t think you can handle as much as the average demigod, which is not all that much to start out with. Because I’m pretty sure that the gods didn’t restrict themselves to lovers of just one nation. And even though the U.S.A may be the current center of power, it simply means that the American born demigods have more, well, god DNA present within them, as opposed to a demigod born in a country where the greek gods were never that powerful to begin off. ”

Nico gets more animated as he talks, his excitement thrown into his expressive gesticulation as he gets closer to the crux of his theory.

“And the thing is, England was the center of the god’s power for many many centuries, and no shift is so absolute that the gods won’t look back at their time over there without visiting. Athena loves the Globe Theatre, for example, and in fact, Shakespeare was a son of hers. I’d put it this way- England is sort of a holiday home to them, a place where they are more relaxed, and not all their associated qualities are represented. Just the ones most intrinsic to who they are. Like Apollos' is music and song, harmony and melody, and not just the sun-charioter. That was conferred upon him, but not originally part of who he was. The one thing he loses all rationality for. You’ve got his charm as well, and if you’ll take it as a compliment, you seem to be very much in harmony with who you are as a person, your soul or what have you, and not just in the literal sense of the word in music.” Nico blushes a bit at the last part, but meets Harry’s eye all the same.

Harry feels distinctly uncomfortable. The fissures between Des and Anne had been growing for years, he knew that, but still, he’d never though his mum would be the first to...

“ But then you’re implying that my Mum got with Apollo while still with my dad, even after Gemma was born.”

For the second time that evening, Nico gently places his hand on Harry’s forearm.“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions Harry. Sometimes, the gods don’t always simply take a lover. They even give children as gifts quite often. Maybe, you’re like, born out of a boom-box or something. We can’t know definitively, unless you meet Apollo and ask him yourself.”

His expression suddenly goes panicky. 

“Just don’t mention anything to him about haiku’s, okay. Or poetry in general. He’s nuts about them and after hearing them a while they get pretty traumatic. And um, no offense at all, I _adore_ your music, but the lyrics could be deeper you know, and maybe you get that from your dad...” he trails off, voice going higher at the end.

And it’s refreshing, the way Nico calls things just as he sees them, because the lads have always kept each other grounded, but apart from them and their immediate families, they only interact with either yes-men, or haters hating on them just for the heck of things.

So Harry lets his actions speak louder than words, and in this instance, allows no further speaking anyway when he leans forward and presses his lips to Nico’s. Nico’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans into the kiss, tilting his head and clutching at Harry’s collar with long fingers. And then Nico pulls back, still close enough that his nose bumps Harry’s and the heat of his breath raises goosebumps on Harry’s neck in the cold air. 

“Gods, I’ve wanted to do that for a while now. Care to tell me what was that for?” he murmurs, looking a bit dazed.

Harry grins at him.“I could give you a lot of reasons, sure. Maybe because you rescued me from overpaying for a service I’d never want to receive thanks to Charon. Or maybe ‘cause you saved my life. Or because you just saved me from a BDSM nightmare.” 

Harry and Nico have to pull away, laughing and groaning at the mental image, but eventually their huffs of laughter die down, and Harry pulls Nico back to him, resting their foreheads together for a moment, eyes closed and breathing him in before he gently scrapes his teeth down Nico’s ear, feathery hair tickling him and the scent of leather and bubble-bath soothing as he hears Nico stifle a gasp.

“Or simply,” he continues, lips still by Nico’s ear, “you were the most honest and real person I’ve met in a long, long time. ” He pulls back to look into Nico’s eyes, obsidian dark and fathoms deep. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from what my life has become, it's that we see the brightest of stars on the darkest of nights, and even if you haven’t slept in forty eight hours, it’s worth drinking all the terrible coffee in the world just to see them when presented with the chance. And now I’ve forgotten what I was telling you about.” Harry blinks.

“You were calling me twinkly?” Nico teases, so Harry sings the Alice in Wonderland version,

“Twinkle twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you’re at, up above the world so high, like a frying pan in the sky.”

“I like Hotel Transylvania, although Count di Angelo makes a lot less impressive bat than Count Dracula.”

“You’re muddling my head, di Angelo.”

“I can fix that,” Nico whispers, and then, does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hang out on Tumblr yo :) www.jonairadreaming.tumblr.com


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